


Whumptober Prompts: Prodigal Son

by doggonefunny



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Blood, Buried Alive, Death, Drowning, Drugs, Feral Malcolm Bright, Guns, Hurt Malcolm Bright, Infection, Kidnapped Malcolm Bright, Kidnapping, Malcolm Bright Whump, Violence, Whump, Whumptober, i think this pretty much covers most things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:41:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26756695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doggonefunny/pseuds/doggonefunny
Summary: Just kicking off Whumptober with my favourite Whump King, Malcolm Bright. Pretty canon-typical stuff, and I keep things within the realm of reality. I don't have the intention to continue these one-shot drabbles and form a full fic, though if there is any interest in them, I may consider it.No beta, we die like men.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Whumptober Prompts: Prodigal Son

**Author's Note:**

> Prodigal Son belongs to the creators + Fox, and I take no ownership over the characters.
> 
> A collection of works this Whumptober, will be updated daily (or at least, that's the plan). All one-shots, though may consider continuing them for a full fic if there is interest. If I miss any tags/you find something that should be tagged while reading through, please don't hesitate to let me know. I think I got all the basics covered, but I'm only human.

The pain in his shoulders and wrists is what finally causes him to wake, and he does so with a dissociated groan and twist of the neck. He’s weak; head falling back lifelessly between the two outstretched arms above his head as he attempts to assess the situation. Okay, so he’s _sore_. Extremely sore -- the joints in his arms are creaking and his body is shaking with the tension in his muscles once he realizes there isn’t really anywhere for him to go. Malcolm is half-cut with whatever drugs are still mulling about in his system, but he’s with it enough to realize that he’s _hanging._

Arms up, rope bound so tight around his wrists the flesh is red and raw beneath the splintered fabric. _Old rope._ His legs are free-hanging, which has its pros and cons. He can kick out if need be, but this also adds more weight and strain to the already taut rope holding him up off the floor. Malcolm manages to blink his eyes into focus, head lifting after he stares dully at the ropes descending from an unseen support beam (he assumes). Alright, senses -- he didn’t train for so long for shits and giggles. 

Sight: he takes note of his surroundings, as dark as they are. Small strands of what appears to be hay are sticking out of every which way. The walls could almost be wallpapered in it if he wasn’t smart enough to realize that the strands are merely haphazardly stuck to the texture of the wood. Wood. This was not a home -- well, it _could_ be a home, but Malcolm highly doubted it, what with the lack of lighting and warmth and standard living conditions … because the smell was atrocious. Like an unkempt barnyard. The type of manure stench that really burned your nostrils, muddled with the metallic assault of _iron_. Blood. Slaughterhouse? Perhaps. It was still too dark to tell.

Malcolm heaves a sigh; attempts to wrap weak fingers around the rope so he can relieve some tension in his arms. He’s unsuccessful, and with a frustrated growl, he shifts himself in such a way that he sways in place. He’s hoping for a structure to wrap his legs around. Something for him to potentially grab on to, but all he manages to do is add more tension to his arms and cause the rope to rub rougher on his wrists. Malcolm doesn’t have to look to know his wrists are bleeding now, the blood trickling down the pale flesh of his arms while he swings. “Hey!”

It’s a last-ditch effort. Even if nobody comes to his aid, he’ll at least draw his kidnapper out, and that was as good as anything if he can talk the man or woman down.

“Hey! Help! Get me down, help!”

“Now, now Angel.”

And it clicks then. Malcolm almost curses himself for being so stupid, even in a stressful situation such as this. The hanging, the secluded location -- the _barn_ , like this is some sort of sick and twisted recreation of the birth and death of Jesus Christ. How appropriate. Malcolm growls again, kicking out once in one last attempt to connect with something; he stills a moment later, allowing himself to sway and spin lazily when a large light floods the barn. He had been correct, at least. It was a barn; the floor thick with shit and rotted hay, and a few chickens roaming about and clucking now that the light had disturbed them from their sleep.

“Mercy.” A quaint and endearing little nickname the media and police department had granted this killer. The Angel of Mercy. The Angel of Death. A man who repented for his own sin by eliminating those who fed on their own. It all makes sense now, but what doesn’t make sense is the fact he is hanging here when there are plenty of other, _real_ sinners out there. Not that Malcolm wanted to see _anyone_ in this particular situation, but why him when it could have been literally any other Joe Blow off the street?

“Yes.” Comes the reply, footsteps squelching in the muck as the man steps closer to inspect his work. Malcolm can feel the blood from his wrists now as it warms his cool skin, trickling down and into the rolled sleeves of his dress shirt. The pain in his shoulders is excruciating by this point, and the boy has difficulty biting back a stuttered moan of pain when his captor presses his fingertips to polished shoe and _pushes_. Malcolm swings though does feel a structure by his left leg upon swinging backward. There’s hope now where there hadn’t been before, and Malcolm could have cursed himself again for even _thinking_ there was no way out of this.

There was always a way out of something.

Malcolm waits patiently until he’s swaying lazily again, body twisting away from his captor before slowly turning back. He can’t get a good look at the other man’s face, with the large light shining brightly like a spotlight on him, but he knows the man is tall and bald, and quite possibly very fit, what with his stature and frame. There’s only one way out of situations like these, and unfortunately, he had been part of a few situations like these during his time as a profiler. He took risks when others wouldn’t or couldn’t -- and though many assumed it was because he was stupid or reckless, that couldn’t be far from the truth.

“Why me?”

“The answer is so simple, Malcolm. So very simple indeed.”

But nothing came simply to Malcolm Whitly. Talking was simple enough, but convincing the other wouldn’t be so. And they do talk, for a time. Malcolm questions him about his motives, about his history, about what he does now, and why he does it while swaying gently and groaning at the pressure in his shoulders. His wrists have at least all but gone numb -- whether that was nerve damage or blood loss from the area or unrecognizable pain, he couldn’t tell. And he didn’t really care, as the more Malcolm spoke to this seemingly righteous man without attaining answers, the more furious he grew with the situation. The more he barked questions at him, and the more he snarled when the man - Mercy - closed in on Malcolm’s space and began laughing. Shouting. Screaming.

Malcolm screamed right back; all the anger and fear and desperation pouring out into a guttural, feral yell that drowned out his captor’s own and pumped static through his ears. He’s left panting when Mercy steps away with another laugh; giddy, with hands clasped together.

“Wrath!” he beams, clapping hands together once or twice while slopping through the muck again to make a wide circle around his hanging sinner. “You are Wrath, Malcolm Whitly. You are the sins of your father, and I am here to rid you of them.”

The man steps forward, grabbing Malcolm’s hip with one hand to steady him so he no longer sways, while the other hand reaches up to grab the boy’s jaw roughly. He forces eye contact, and Malcolm glares down at the other through frustrated, angry tears. “I forgive you, son.”

Malcolm releases a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding.

“Fuck you.”

“I forgive you.”

This is no preacher, and Malcolm was never one to follow blindly. He marched to the beat of his own drum, and he had always opposed organized religion, even if Mother had raised the kids to be Catholic -- he did not practice. The boy continues to glare silently as Mercy releases his jaw, stepping back and away toward the large structure that held the spotlight. Malcolm barely manages to catch a detailed glimpse of the man before he’s thrown into darkness, the light dying so quick that Malcolm thinks for a moment he’s gone blind with his rage. “No, don’t go. Don’t go!”

“You need time to reflect, child. When you are ready to confess, then I will return.”

And Malcolm shouts again, this time in pure fear. An animalistic _whine_ that squeezes out of him as he lifts his legs. Kicks out. Twists his body with a slew of curse words and pained cries. He can’t quite find that structure he had felt before, but he’s too busy struggling with blind panic to take notice of his surroundings any longer.

He doesn’t care to know what his so-called repentance will bring.


End file.
